A Woman of Spanish Blood
by Pompey
Summary: Based on the theory put forth in Pierre Bayard’s “Sherlock Holmes was Wrong”. The Baskerville case gets revisited and the real murderer revealed. Complete finally!
1. Chapter 1

_"A woman of Spanish blood does not condone such an injury so lightly." -- Hound of the Baskervilles_

* * *

Holmes was silent as we cautiously made our way out of the mire back to solid ground where Mrs. Stapleton, as I still thought of her, stood waiting for us. Her eyebrows rose and she clasped her hands in front of her, her dark eyes alight. "Have you found what you sought?"

"Yes. I said it in London and I say it again now that never yet have we helped to hunt down a more dangerous man than he who is lying yonder." Holmes gestured grandly with his arm to the wild, treacherous mire from whence we had come.

"You are sure he was lost to the moor?" the girl persisted with a strange mixture of hope and fear.

Holmes sent her a look I could not interpret. "I have no doubt whatsoever that he is dead, and that his body cannot be recovered. And now, madam, Watson and I must relay these new developments to Dr. Mortimer."

"And Sir Henry too, surely."

"I fear not. He has had a terrible shock and was already ill when we departed this morning."

The lady gasped and one elegant hand flew to her mouth. "Is it serious?"

"Dr. Mortimer says his condition very grave."

"I am truly sorry to hear that." And indeed, there were tears glimmering in her eyes. "But no doubt being in his ancestral land will aid his recovery?"

"Perhaps. I rather think he will require a good, long holiday away from this place. It may be his ancestral home but now there are wretched memories attached to it. I think some time away would be the most beneficial for him."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose so," Mrs. Stapleton faltered. Her eyes dimmed and she turned away from us towards Merripit House. My heart went out to this poor woman who had already suffered so much cruelty and hardship in her short life. I turned to say as much to Holmes but my words died away unsaid.

I have rarely seen him look so – perhaps moments after we learned of the disappearance of John Douglas, a.k.a. Birdy Edwards, and he plotted the demise of Moriarty or while he was creating the message to avenge the death of John Openshaw. He watched Mrs. Stapleton's progress with a cold, hard expression that left me taken aback. Suddenly he seized my arm and veritably began dragging me down the path after her.

"Come, Watson! I will not have us playing accomplice to murder!"

"Holmes, what on earth are you talking about?" I cried.

"You will see, Watson, you will see. It is we who have been the dupes and tools in this matter, make no mistake."

Mrs. Stapleton had reached her front door when we caught up with her. She turned, looking as surprised by our presence as I felt. "Is there something else you wished to know, Mr. Holmes?"

"There is," replied he. "May we come in?"

"Oh . . . yes . . . certainly." She escorted us in and offered us seats, which Holmes declined.

"No, I do not anticipate this taking much time. I hold most of the threads in this case; there are but a few loose ends that I should like to address before we return to London. First and foremost, Mrs. Baskerville, when exactly did you first decide to kill your husband?"

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

The lady started violently. "I - I beg your pardon, sir! Kill my husband? Never! I . . . "

"No, Mrs. Baskerville, it will not do," Holmes answered calmly. "I confess you are far more clever than your late husband was. Very likely Inspector Lestrade does not realize the truth of the matter yet. But you left too many small discrepancies unanswered. Shall I ennumerate them for you?"

"Well, I should like to hear why you think I am a murderess," Mrs. Stapleton retorted spiritedly, gracefully taking a seat of her own.

"From the beginning you knew your late husband's plot to gain Baskerville Hall and its fortunes ill-conceived. As the son of the youngest brother, he was only second in line to inherit. Then there were the logistical twists and turns he would have to accomplish in order to overcome the suspicious circumstances of his becoming the last Baskerville."

"You are telling me nothing I did not already know, Mr. Holmes, but that still does not explain why I should wish to kill him."

"He was cruel to you and a failure in every endeavor he undertook. He descended from thievery to cold-blooded pistolling to murderous plots. And a woman of Spanish blood such as you does not condone such injuries so lightly. You made up your mind that you would pretend to go along with Stapleton's plans but all the while you were subtly sabotaging them until such a time that you could dispose of him."

The lady laughed faintly. "Sir, I do not know whether you have complimented me or insulted me."

"I have done neither; I have stated the facts. Unfortunately, you quite overplayed your role as the fearful, helpless wife. You refused to write the letter to Sir Charles, luring him to the yew alley."

"Yes, I wanted nothing to do with that foul scheme."

"You wanted, quite reasonably, nothing to link you to his death. Moreover, the more people who suspected Stapleton of shady dealings, the more likely it would be his plans would be discovered."

The lady was silent a moment. "Is that the extent of your proof?"

"By no means. It is a strange hotel indeed that leaves rooms uncleaned and untidied during the day. An imprisoned woman is not a fixture that is easily hidden. Ergo, you were not in the London hotel or you were not London against your will. As we had clearly established that the note scented with your perfume came from the hotel, clearly the latter choice is the correct one.

"Secondly, Stapleton was a man of many talents but being in two places at once was not among them. While Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry consulted me, they were followed. How could Stapleton have purloined Sir Henry's black boot if he was following them in a carriage in disguise? The simplest answer is that he did not."

"Surely you don't think _I_ purloined the boot!"

"No, you were the one in the carriage, disguised as a man."

I found I could not remain silent. "My dear Holmes, think what you are saying!"

"I know precisely what I am saying, Watson," he snapped with unwarranted heat. "I dismissed Stapleton as having been the man with the beard who followed Sir Henry in London. Recall the cab driver's description – 'two or three inches shorter' than myself. Stapleton was barely of average height but you, Mrs. Baskerville, quite match that. With a false beard and a man's clothing, how could an unassuming cabbie discern your true age, let alone your true sex? My compliments, by the way, at thwarting my investigation so neatly in that respect."

For a moment she wavered; to accept the compliment was to acknowledge the truth of my friend's accusation. "I tried to warn Sir Henry away," she said instead. "I only ever cared about his well-being, especially after my husband killed Sir Charles!"

"Did he kill Sir Charles?" asked Holmes blandly. "By all accounts Sir Charles died of a very natural heart attack. Even the hound's role in his death is passive; there was not a mark on the body, after all."

"What you say may be true," faltered the girl in confusion, "but it was he who set up the circumstances to bring about Sir Charles's death."

"Certainly Stapleton had murderous intentions. He meant to be lord of Baskerville Hall and you would be its lady, one way or another."

Her posture suddenly stiffened and she flushed angrily. "Pray what do you mean by that, Mr. Holmes?"

"It suited your purposes to protect Sir Henry. Indeed, you nearly went out of your way to publicly show your desperate disapproval of his arrival on the moors. You even accosted Watson under the excuse you had mistaken him for Sir Henry when in reality you knew full well who the baronet was. And in the event Stapleton failed in his plot, as you knew he would, it behooved you to have another Baskerville to wed. I note you did nothing to spurn his advances; had you done so, I have no doubt Sir Henry, being an honorable man, would have ceased his pursuit of you."

"Holmes!" I exclaimed in reprimand.

"Sir, you go too far!" Mrs. Stapleton cried, leaping to her feet. I seconded her outrage and yet if Holmes were correct, the outrage ought to be wholly Holmes's and Sir Henry's.

"I go only as far as you have gone, madam," my friend replied coolly, ignoring my outburst. "Last night, Watson observed that you were absent from dinner. You had good reason to be."

"I am glad you think being bound and gagged is a good reason," she retorted equally as coldly.

"So it would be, if you had been. In reality you were waiting for the signal to release the hound."

"I!"

"Indeed. You released the hound as commanded by Stapleton and yet you had secreted on your person the pistol he had used in May to commit his burglaries. You meant to follow and kill the hound, thus proving yourself the heroine of the hour for Sir Henry. Instead, you heard our gunshots and realized your own plans would have to change."

"Plans including tying myself to a beam and locking myself into an upper room?" she mocked.

Reluctantly I had to admit Mrs. Stapleton had a point. The door had been locked from the outside and there was no way she could have bruised or bound herself.

"Where was your manservant Anthony during all of this?" Holmes asked softly.

TBA

* * *

_A thousand apologies for the delay in updating -- the book addresses only so many discrepancies. To make Bayard's theory work I had to do a lot more thinking and back-plotting. Hence what I originally envisioned as a confrontation has turned into mounds of dialogue. There is one more update on the way: Dr. Mortimer's part in this business._


	3. Chapter 3

"Anthony has been quite indispensable to you," Holmes commented when Mrs. Stapleton did not answer. "He tended the hound while you and your husband were in London. He helped you bruise your own flesh while Stapleton and Sir Henry were at dinner. He helped bind you to the pillar and he was the one who locked the door. He also helped you kill your husband."

"You keep insisting I killed him!" Mrs. Stapleton cried. "I did not – he perished in the moors while trying to flee to the secret island."

"Well, his body most certainly lies beneath the muck and mire. Was he given a choice?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your husband. He had a pistol; you knew where it was. I only wonder if you shot him and then dragged his body into the moors or if you allowed him a chance to flee, albeit at gunpoint. There was certainly no reason for him to run to an island with limited resources rather than make a new name for himself in a new location as he had twice before. I should prefer the latter theory but I do wonder, especially in light of what happened to Dr. Mortimer's poor spaniel."

"His spaniel?" I could not help but echo.

"We found its remains on the island, where the hound was kept. The odds of it finding its way through the moor to safety are remarkably low. But why should you capture and imprison his dog? It could not serve as food for your hound; it could not enhance the legend in any way."

"Then what reason could I have had to keep Dr. Mortimer's spaniel from him?" There was to the lady's question a somewhat challenging manner, as though she were daring Holmes to prove her guilt. For my part I could not decide if it were preferable for Holmes to be right and this beautiful girl a cold-hearted murderess or for her to be innocent and my friend completely mistaken.

"To win his sympathy and his support," answer Holmes simply.

I fear Mrs. Stapleton and I both stared at the detective in confusion. Whatever leap of logic he had made to reach this conclusion was beyond my powers to follow.

"Holmes – "

"Mr. Holmes, I don't understand."

One single eyebrow rose caustically. "Have you any idea why Dr. Mortimer was so adamant that if Sir Henry died the estate would go to Mr. James Desmond rather than to the son of Roger Baskerville? It was not hard to track down the records, I assure you. It would have been a far simpler excavation than his usual works . . . unless he was warned ahead of time that he should not delve too deeply into the family records. With the trustees convinced Mr. Desmond was due to inherit after Sir Henry, your husband was hampered in his aim to have himself declared as the next in line. But that still left the little problem of preventing Sir Henry's murder. Who was it, I wonder, who first had the idea to ask me to investigate?"

Mrs. Stapleton stammered for a moment. Holmes interrupted. "You could not, of course, tell him all that _you_ planned but you told him enough about the hound living on the island and your husband's ancestry to give Dr. Mortimer an idea as to Stapleton's nefarious plot. He had no proof – none from you, at any rate – and so he came to me."

"But the spaniel?"

"Clearly Stapleton's depravity knew no bounds," replied Holmes, mockingly, "if he would stoop to stealing and imprisoning an innocent dog. And certainly it is conceivable that a man who would do that would be equally cruel to others, including his wife. The death of Mortimer's spaniel is merely more, convenient evidence of that."

The lady stood as gracefully and regally as an empress. "This all has been a most entertaining web of theories you have spun, Mr. Holmes. Have you proof to support any of them?"

Holmes smiled. "Dr. Mortimer's testimony, for one. The testimony of the hotel staff for another. Then there is John Clayton who drives cab number 2704 . . . and Sir Henry himself, once he recovers."

At the mention of the baronet, Mrs. Stapleton's demeanor wilted somewhat. "But he will recover?" she demanded, unable to keep a note of desperation from her voice.

"I cannot say; I am not a physician," replied Holmes with a shrug. "I imagine he shall. I also imagine the he may require a long holiday away from Dartmoor."

"Oh. Yes. Yes, of course," she murmured and turned away. "I suppose you are going to tell him all that you . . . have theorized?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder at us.

I found myself simultaneously admiring and recoiling from her continued coolness and half-denials. Whatever else she was, Mrs. Stapleton was a formidable woman and a foe worthy of my friend's steel. But I wondered myself what Holmes's next course of action would be. He was silent, thoughtfully observing her.

"That depends on you," said Holmes at last.

"I?"

"Should Sir Henry recover, you will cut off all contact with him. You will leave Dartmoor if necessary, but you will persuade him that he cannot marry you."

Mrs. Stapleton shook her head slowly. "He loves me," she whispered.

"Then break his heart."

She flinched as though Holmes had struck her across the face. "And what do I gain in return?"

"Our silence." He glanced briefly at me. "Neither Watson nor I will divulge the true events of this mystery. Should you persist in your endeavors to marry Sir Henry, however, rest assured that the full truth shall be divulged."

At last that proud head lowered in resignation. "What can I say? Mr. Holmes, in either case you leave me nothing."

"Not so. You will still have your reputation unsullied."

At that she gave a small scoffing laugh which, if one had not been looking at her face, could have been misinterpreted as a sob. "Yes, for what it is worth, I will have that. That is true. Forgive me, gentlemen, if I bid you an abrupt good day."

"Indeed," replied Holmes, surprisingly gentle. "Good day, madam."

* * *

We had nearly made it back to Baskerville Hall when I ventured to ask Holmes if he did in fact possess enough evidence to convict Beryl Stapleton. He paused, pulled out his cigarette case, calmly selected one, lit it, drew upon it, and exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

"It is doubtful," he admitted at last. "There is perhaps enough to have her brought in for questioning but not much more than that. John Clayton would not be able to swear it was she he drove that day and Dr. Mortimer, I fear, would rather incriminate himself as well as her if he were to testify. As for the hotel staff, you recall that we never were able to track down which hotel the Stapletons were staying in."

"You bluffed."

"I did. And I succeeded."

"And yet you showed her mercy, albeit conditionally."

He shrugged in a most Gallic fashion. "Well, we have no hard evidence, as I said. And while the lady plotted murder as cold-bloodedly as her husband, one might argue that it was to defend herself against a cruel fiend, while Stapleton sought to kill off his last remaining relatives out of greed."

I could appreciate his point and yet there remained a question unanswered. "Do you wish me to include this epilogue in my notes of this case?"

"You may, if _you_ wish," Holmes conceded, exhaling smoke again. "It is the truth, after all. But I cannot allow you to write up this case for the public for several years. It may be ungentlemanly but it is convenient to have some insurance of Mrs. Stapleton's keeping her part of the bargain. And perhaps in a decade or two, if she has proven herself trustworthy, you shall write up the account as Lestrade believes it happened. I do hold out some hopes to that effect. The lady has a remarkable sense of self-preservation. She knows it is in her best interest to fall in line with my commands.

"Even so, I should not prefer to cross paths with Mrs. Stapleton again. I have no doubt I should come off the champion yet again but I rather think she would do her best to make it a Pyrrhic victory for me. A woman of Spanish blood does not condone an injury so lightly and I am but the latest man to injure her. I hope for her sake, Watson, that I am the last."

* * *


End file.
